By: Quintin Collins
pluto be orbit uncommon
i be dead been dead been dying been death
god i been a body bounce round the sun been a body
celestial outside earth atmosphere the scientist say
at most been asteroid say i ain’t been a body
worth measure say i got ocean beneath my skin
say my brain is full of ice say i be cold say i be dead
say i be dead to neptune but water say life on mars
so why i be dead to NASA and them
school books been where i be abnormal say my axis sits
sideways seasons a mess say i always got skin dark
skin light too say i got wandering poles ain’t no true
north atop my head ain’t no man make me wear words
for earth i be orbit uncommon i
be chaos been had an orbit
upset ordinances i be on your science magazine
methane ice glossy halo crater scars but i still be dead
still disposable been body been celestial
body be body so who gon tell me i be nothin
but rock who gon deny i dominate my neighborhood
a summer lesson on multiplication
like these kids multiply
at playgrounds after school lets out pinball children
bump & red rover & run & swing & freeze
tag & red light green light & simon says
always more bodies baked when sun sweats
high noon hits always more sweat
always more children more Huffy more Wilson
thrown across Ravisloe Terrace & hollers these boys throw
to girls teeth sucked back at boys
more super soakers sprinkler runs always more summer
hours always more kids at Atkins Park for more
wood mulch splinters bomb pop popsicle sticks
& kids seek freedom before they knew freedom
wasn’t for them freedom wasn’t for them freedom
a feat for daddy’s day off miller high life cans
barry white through speakers freedom a feat
for momma to watch tv in bed all day
for momma & daddy to kick kids out the house
& don’t come back for a few hours
just don’t go too far & make sure you check in
every hour as if these kids wore watches or watched
sun skip then hop through the hours
too busy multiplying on every block little siblings
new to this but in tow & cousins staying for summer
& all these damn kids running
the block more Mongoose more Razor
more Spalding more run it back more running back
before streetlight more i’m sorry mama just a mistake
just broke neighbor’s stoop light neighbor’s window
it wasn’t me mama i swear it wasn’t me but law
of multiplication says no matter how kids group
numbers get the same result kids get guilty
by association kids get guilty kids tear drop
decline invites for outside through the screen door
or mama says can’t come outside & punishment
& loneliness multiplies hours & mama says worry
multiplies every time kid sets foot outdoors
says the wrong crowd but kids accumulate
next week next to Country Pantry Lemonheads
packed in pockets with a few coins & Sour Warheads
& Frooties & Fruit Chews always more kids want
always more always more kids on the block
always more freedom always sugar packed
in pockets always another pocket of kids on 180th
another pack of bikes on Idlewild Drive
these kids divide
when anybody’s mama
says get yo asses out the street
but reassemble
when she peels off bike wheels criss cross
paths figure eight infinities on pavement
The Alchemy of Our Uncles’ Chest Hair
That bounty curled from the convergence
of shirt collar ornamented with figaro.
Sweat stagnates on the sternum,
gilds the strands in sunlight. Our uncles
offer a word with a Corona,
Budweiser, or Heineken in hand
at the barbecue, chest strands snaked
over the neck of a tank top—reservoir
for a stream of whiskey, tequila,
cognac that misses their lips,
rolls down their chins. If you let them narrate—
like their myths of Jameson that transmutes
into hair on our chests after the booze burns
dull in our throats—they don’t spill
any liquor. Our uncles forget
to mention this alchemy requires patience.
They began to manifest
this magic in boyhood, days running the block
with other boys until our grandmothers
echoed their names from front stoops;
that same echo prompts the gold glow,
summer afternoon sunlight slicked
’round loops of our uncles chest hairs
as they turn the ribs on the grill. In their woven sandals,
they weave their stories
between beer sips, shots, and grown folks’ conversations.
We listen to their silver tongue tales,
how they persuade truth to stretch
like hair fibers spread over their collars.
Only when their hair silvers into cuban links
do we understand how liquor can aurify
our once-bare bodies, when we, before a mirror,
notice a single strand spirals from our chests.
Quintin Collins (he/him) is a writer, editor, and Solstice MFA Program assistant director. His work has appeared in many print and online publications, and his first full-length collection of poems, The Dandelion Speaks of Survival, is forthcoming from Cherry Castle Publishing in 2021. See more of his work on qcollinswriter.com.
sidereal magazine 